Dame

I who,
Hath disdainful sclera,
Breaches of spreaded roses.
Palanquin veering into enema.

Wilth,
Sedate the shawled gales,
Break the splintered unguent.
Meet the red comrades in chains.

He,the god man
Of the silver trembling moths,
Hath taps of unscented salves,
Ameliorate the plexus with turmeric rivet.

Sun asks,
To the singing lilies on the moon,
"pipe the Adam's ale".
Smiling, the golden prostitute fangs.

Mornings,
pouring acid on the frail,
afflatus for purple hunters(sunk deep),
screams of my hanging enemy.

Adil Sami.